


Love's Bitch

by skargasm



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-12-03 19:42:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skargasm/pseuds/skargasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>→  Love's bitch, he always took what was offered and expected no more – even when it could kill him....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love's Bitch

**Title:** → Love's Bitch  
 **Rating:** → NC17  
 **Author:** → [](http://skargasm.livejournal.com/profile)[**skargasm**](http://skargasm.livejournal.com/)  
 **Pairing:** → Angelus/Spike (William)  
 **Prompt:** → Prompt # 341: Mouse @ [](http://tamingthemuse.livejournal.com/profile)[**tamingthemuse**](http://tamingthemuse.livejournal.com/) & Prompt: Forgiveness @ [](http://12-stories.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://12-stories.livejournal.com/)**12_stories**  
 **Fandom:** → AtS/BtVS  
 **Word Count:** → 1501  
 **Genre:** → AU  
 **Beta (s):** → Unbeta'd but proofread  
 **Disclaimer:** → Not mine.  
 **Summary:** → Love's bitch, he always took what was offered and expected no more – even when it could kill him....  


* * *

_So, so cold. He had no excess body fat on him so the bone deep cold from the floor seeped into him until it felt like he was frozen to his very core._

So, so cold that there were times he actually looked forward to His visits just for the faux warmth of another body, even if it was the body of his torturer/lover. The warmth came with a price though – sharp blows, pinches and squeezes; the feel of the coarse blanket pressing into his face as he used it to muffle any cries – mustn't make a sound, stay quiet as a mouse, He didn't like to hear the sounds – said it was an unnecessary distraction from his pleasure.

The time before last – or was it before that? Time flowed in a seamless river and he had no idea how long he had been here. He'd been unable to muffle his cries – no pillow, no blanket to scream into when he was face up, forced to watch those dark pitiless eyes drinking in the pain his big body was inflicting, hammering and pounding into him until he felt like He was trying to drive himself _through_ him. A particularly vicious twist of hips and a cry was dragged from him – unwilling arousal, pain, who knew – who could tell by this stage?

The cry brought immediate retribution, sharp but fortunately human teeth biting into his tongue until blood filled his mouth. He allowed no more sounds to escape, swallowing his own blood with gratitude as it fed his starving body even as it was a form of self cannibalism. He took it as the warning it so obviously was – next time it would not be the human teeth; next time his tongue might not remain attached. He didn't make any sounds again while He was in the room, screaming inside until it was like white noise, a constant that formed his lullabies.

Sometimes there was a long wait between visits – time dragged and he curled up on the floor and comforted himself by rocking back and forth. Not the bed – not allowed on the bed whilst alone. Just the cold, hard floor making his bones ache more than ever, the cold seeping into his veins until he thought if he scratched himself he would bleed pure ice water.

Sometimes there seemed to be no time between visits. No time to recover, no time when his body wasn't aching for a different reason than the cold or the hunger, bones hurting, skin mottled with fresh bruises daily. He stopped listening to the actual words of the diatribes, familiar with the names in only a vague sense now: Cordelia, Wesley, Gunn, Buffy, Giles, Willow, Xander. Willow's name came up frequently when he was really raging, expletives about orbs of Thesulah and witches who should know not to meddle in things that weren't her business. All he really knew was that when those names were being screamed, he suffered more than usual. In the end, all that those names meant to him was pain.

At least he got fed after the worst visits.

Then the visits stopped.

* * *

  
_So hungry. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had blood. He could feel each and every single one of his bones pressing against his skin and there was a constant gnawing in his gut. The hardest thing to bear was the loneliness – even though he wasn't allowed to speak, he missed a voice talking to him; he missed touch, even rough and violent touch. He felt like he was disappearing – if He didn't come back, did anyone else know he was there?_

“Holy Christ, what did he do?!”

“Buffy, be careful!” He flinched at the name, pushing himself into the wall to try to get away from the hands that were reaching out for him. Those names meant pain and even loneliness didn't mean he welcomed pain. The hands didn't look like His hands but what if he was wrong? “He could have gone feral.”

“He's all skin and bones – didn't Deadboy even _feed_ him?” Strong arms tried to prise him away from the wall, tugging at him and finally yanking when he scrabbled and fought against them, ignoring his near silent whimpers, pulling him close into unbelievable warmth.

“Oh God, I never thought I would ever see Spike like this - “

“I can't believe they thought it was a good idea to remove it, even for such valuable information - “

Softness settled over his shoulders and down his body and he registered it as a blanket just before he was swung into strong arms and the room was moving past him in a dizzying rush. Long strides across the cell before they reached the door and he realised he was disobeying Him – under no circumstances was he to leave the cell, never to cross the threshold. The panic seized him and he began to fight feebly against the unbelievably gentle hold, managing to grab at the door jamb and cling with trembling fingers.

“What the – Xander, just pull him - “

“I don't want to hurt him – he's been hurt enough already - “

“Give him to me.”

That voice.

It was His voice but not.

It was Him but not.

He squinted against the bright lights of the torches they were using to see their way, a terrified whimper escaping as He reached for him. He had almost believed that he was being saved, that this wasn't a dream but now He was here, He would take him back to the bed, He would throw him down onto his front and hold him down so that He could -

“You get the hell away from him. I don't care if your soul is back, you won't touch him again.”

“XANDER!!”

“Don't make excuses for him Buffy – if it was all Angelus, then why does HE have to pay penance?? No, there was a part of him that wanted to do this and Angelus is just the excuse he needed. Are you happy now – happy with what you've achieved?? Spike may have always been an annoying little thug but he had his own brand of honour – if he was going to kill you, he'd probably warn you in advance just to make it more interesting. And look what you've done to him! You always wondered why I hated vampires?? It's not a generic thing, Deadboy – I'm no longer that ignorant. I hate **you** because you're a gutless bastard who hides behind the soul. Now get out of my way. If you _really_ want to help, tell him he's allowed to come with me. TELL HIM!”

Who was this who dared to challenge Him? Who pulled him close and held him gently? He didn't know how to react – it had been so long since a touch had been free of pain. He didn't trust any of this any longer – he wanted to be back on the floor in the corner, arms wrapped around himself, rocking back and forth. He wanted the familiar – he wanted -

“William you may leave the cell.”

Freedom.

Warmer air, different walls, and then into a larger space. So scary but the arms around him just held him tighter as though aware of his feelings. He winced, feeling the echo of pain from when He had dislocated his shoulder pulling his arms back to use like reins. He pressed his face into the warmth of the brown neck and inhaled a scent full of want, regret, sorrow and yes, lust. But it smelled clean and honest, not dark and hidden. The boy had always reminded him of himself when it came to love – foolishly giving away his heart, bearing the pain when it was handed back bruised and battered.

He twisted slightly and looked back, over the broad shoulders holding him and saw Him.

The same but not.

Him but not.

The eyes staring at him were dark with regret and sorrow, the mouth twisted in a grimace of loss, and as they moved further and further away he saw a hand lift, a gesture towards him – a final plea for William to take it, asking for forgiveness, for him to come back, to give it a chance with this different Him perhaps?

Could he? Should he?

Always the fool for love – accepting what was given as though not worthy of anything more; tossed aside when no longer convenient then picked up again like an old faithful toy that never showed resentment, never said no. Always love's bitch.

He looked back once more – behind those dark eyes he could almost **feel** the real Him watching.

Still there.

Waiting.

He closed his eyes and let his hand creep up until it was around Xander's neck. Love's bitch no more.

* * *

fin

* * *


End file.
